


cat's in the cradle

by andymcnope



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Crackish but not. Crack-light., F/F, Fluff and Humor, Humor, POV Sameen Shaw, no spoilers past second half of s3, shaw may or may not taste baby food at one point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7422073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andymcnope/pseuds/andymcnope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Root is still holding the kid and staring at her like she knew Shaw wouldn’t leave, with this smirk that pisses Shaw off. She refuses to believe she's predictable in these situations, as if Root is expecting her to give a crap when she definitely doesn't… much. Plus, Finch would probably be really pissed if a kid died because Shaw left it in Root’s care.</p><p> </p><p>aka "Baby Blue Redux"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jadesabre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadesabre/gifts).



> Set in late s3 bc fuck Samaritan, that's why.
> 
> Thanks to K for the beta work, and she gets 51% credit for this fic.

*

  
  


The tree-lined street doesn’t even feel like it’s part of New York City to Shaw. She does a double take when she gets out of the cab and checks the address on her phone, but it’s no mistake. The cabbie complains about the dog hair on the seat; she tips him extra to get him to shut up. Bear looks appropriately put out by the implication that his fur is anything but a gift.

 

Reese picked a hell of a time to go on a vacation, especially when Harold already had plans to be at some convention for nerds who love books... or computers, or books about computers? Whatever, Shaw tuned most of it out, choosing to focus on the whole ‘well, hope you don’t have any plans because you’re about to be the only one preventing murders in all of New York City’ part of the conversation.

 

Avery Motta is all she’d gotten - other than the address - and she’s not sure if it’s a guy or a chick or what they do. Shaw knows Finch’s system well enough, but the digging was taking too damn long; plus, she doesn't exactly have back up, to keep an eye on the number while she kept searching.

 

Unless you count Fusco. Which she definitely doesn't.

 

The result is she’s in some gentrified section of Brooklyn, approaching the front door of a swanky new condo that looks like a goddamn ice cube, and she doesn’t understand why anyone would choose to live in a place surrounded by glass. The condos are all stacked like Jenga blocks, some jutting out and some sunken in; it’s probably meant to be edgy - but really, it’s just a waste of valuable real estate. That and it makes her question which door is the right one. 

 

She sure hopes she’s breaking into the right place.

 

The updated lock makes her sigh because it won’t be a quick pick. She turns towards the street, checking for anyone tailing her or any nosy neighbors; she finds none. Unfortunately she does see some guy in blond dreads riding a unicycle, and she has to refrain from shooting at him as a mere statement, or at least letting Bear chase him. This might be worse than the suburbs, and John hasn’t shut up about that case in the entire year she’s known him. 

 

“You know, you  _ could _ just knock.”

 

Shaw freezes at the voice behind her, wondering if Root managed to pick the lock without the assistance of the Machine. Shaw bets not. It’s a moot point, because Root is here already, which means Shaw can just leave and avoid this whole conversation. If she just walks a straight line back to the curb right now, she won’t even have to  _ see _ Root’s face. At all. Shaw might even get to take a nap when she got home.

 

A gleeful coo snaps her out of daydreaming about actual sleep. Root can be  _ insistent _ , but cooing? That’s a new low. “Okay, you've gotta stop...” Shaw stops talking when she turns around and sees--  _ Shit _ . “That’s a baby.”

 

“Impressive deductive skills, Sameen.” Root grins as one loose curl of brown hair gets wrapped in the infant’s little fist. Shaw eyeballs the kid at around six months, judging by the way it holds itself up comfortably, tucked into Root’s right arm. “Meet our newest number.”

 

Shaw narrows her eyes at Root, who’s just staring at the kid. The tiny baby hand that’s not wrapped in Root’s hair is shoved into its tiny baby mouth with not so tiny baby drool all around it. It’s a _ really _ weird sight, Root’s entire focus on something that’s not a computer or a gun or... well, Shaw. Not that Shaw wants Root to look at her - that’s actually how most of Shaw’s bad decision making starts lately - but, yeah.  “It, uh, seems you’ve got a… handle on this one already, so Bear and I are just gonna,” Shaw trails off, wondering if the horror is evident on her face - she fucking hopes so - as she points at the street with her thumb.

 

“Sure thing, Shaw,” Root replies distractedly. “I think I hear the kettle, which means  _ someone _ ’s bottle will be ready shortly.” Root punctuates the sentence by pressing her index finger against the baby’s nose--  _ bops _ it. She bops the freaking nose, and the kid coos loudly, a wide, drooly, smile forming as it presses what looks like a really sticky hand against Root’s jaw, and Shaw is just horrified.

 

The door closes behind Root, and Shaw finds herself still in the same exact place two minutes later. With Bear’s leash in her hand, her mind fills with a mixture of horror, concern, disbelief, surprise, and concern-- it just keeps cycling back to concern, actually. Even as she begins walking towards the street, her thoughts are still racing.

 

_ Who would want to kill the kid?  _

 

Then, a second later another thought pops up:  _ Is *Root* gonna kill this kid? _

 

Sure, she’s reformed or whatever-- Shaw’s not sure that’s the right word, but Root  _ is _ less murderous than she used to be. That doesn’t mean she couldn’t kill the kid, maybe unintentionally? Though the Machine wouldn’t have spat out the number if it were an accident, so there’s probably one or more threats, in addition to the dozens of scenarios crossing Shaw’s mind of how Root could fuck this up.

 

_ Did Root kill its parents? _ Probably not out of the realm of possibility either.

 

Shaw flags down a cab and then Bear is tilting his head at her, as if he can’t believe she’s actually contemplating leaving a defenseless human being in Root’s hands. That or he wants to pee - either way, Shaw waves the cab away and returns to one of the large trees. The dog circles around three times before he finally picks a spot, and Shaw is glancing upwards at the sky, a shade of blue fading into pink and purple as the sun sets.

 

The door being unlocked is a surprise, but then Root is staring at her like she knew Shaw wouldn’t leave, a smirk that pisses Shaw off. She refuses to believe she's predictable in these situations, as if Root is expecting her to give a crap when she definitely doesn't...  _ Much _ . Plus,  Finch would probably be really pissed if a kid died because Shaw left it in Root’s care. 

 

The whole thing is pretty damn unnerving, but it’s also made worse by the fact the kid is now cradled horizontally on Root’s forearm, one end of the bottle in its mouth, and the other end lodged under Root’s chin so she still has one hand free. Shaw hates to admit that Root looks almost... natural at it? Comfort level wise. Not aesthetically, because the whole picture is still difficult to grasp.

 

“Please tell me you didn’t kidnap it,” Shaw says as she unclips Bear’s leash so he can do a recon of the place. 

 

“ _ Him _ ,” Root corrects. “And no, I didn’t kidnap him. I learned my lesson last time… well, the other two times, before.”

 

Before usually means P.M.: pre-Machine. Shaw raises an eyebrow, still suspicious. “... did you  _ buy _ it? Him, I mean.”

 

Root tilts her head petulantly, as if Shaw’s question is baseless (it’s not). Unfortunately for both of them - all three, if you count the kid - the movement dislodges the baby bottle.

The loud wailing breaks out like thunder. Bear returns from his inspection, confused about the source of the noise, so he also starts to whine. Shaw is quickly developing a headache. “Okay, everyone settle down!” As soon as she shouts the words, she realizes she should’ve known better: Bear settles down, but the kid, startled by her tone and volume, just cries louder.

 

“Shh,” Root shushes the kid - or shushes Shaw, she’s not sure - and lifts him until his head is pressed against her collarbone, and she rocks him from side to side. She glares at Shaw before adding: “He doesn’t like loud noises.”

 

“Well, neither do I,” Shaw bites back, as she realizes she’s getting admonished. By Root. Over a  _ baby _ . There’s a comment on the tip of Shaw’s tongue about Root’s unfair advantage with the reduced hearing, but something stops her. It’s not guilt because she doesn’t  _ feel  _ guilt, and she doesn’t really care about Root’s sensitivity on the matter. It just feels like a low blow, the encounter with Control still fresh on Shaw’s mind. 

 

(She figures it’s still fresh on Root’s too, but they don’t really talk about it. They don’t talk much at all, especially with how often Root disappears for weeks at a time. Not that Shaw even pays attention, but it's probably been at least a dozen numbers since she last saw the hacker - it’s just annoying to have Root dropping in randomly on her-- them.. the team, whatever.)

 

She does give in, somewhat, walking towards Root and picking up the dropped bottle. Shaw sets it on the counter next to them. It’s not an apology because she doesn’t think she should have to apologize, since she wasn’t the one trying to break the sound barrier. She hopes it will stop Root’s judgmental glare and the crying.

 

The baby (Avery, apparently, which is a lame name as far as Shaw’s concerned) finally settles down, and a look of relief washes over Root’s face when she manages to stick the rubber tip back in his mouth. This time the tiny hands wrap around the bottle to help hold it in place. 

 

“So what’s the story here?” Shaw asks when the noise level returns to an acceptable level for her. “And how come you're such a natural at...” she pauses as a terrifying thought crosses her mind: does Root have a kid stashed somewhere? Has she done this before?

 

“Relax, Sameen,” Root says at Shaw’s (not so) mild panic. “Once I had a… contract to resolve a slight custody dispute. Guy took his newborn to Sweden and the mother-- let’s just say she was very willing to negotiate for her daughter’s return. After ten hours on a plane smuggling an infant, you get really good at calming them down, pretty fast.”

 

Shaw had a very specific idea of what had happened to the father of said child, but she's learned it’s best not to ask - at least where Root is concerned.

 

“Well, anyway, in this case the fine state of New York needed an emergency foster parent for little Avery here, and as luck would have it, I was picked.” 

 

“Luck, sure,” Shaw rolls her eyes, because the Administration for Child Services’ computers probably have the Machine’s fingerprints all over it, or whatever the digital equivalent of fingerprints are. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just keep an eye on the kid with a real foster family, rather than pretend to be a foster mom?”

 

“Who says I’m pretending?” Root replies. “I took the classes, got the paper certificate and everything - well, Jenna Simpson’s certification is real, but that’s semantics. I had some free time between gaining access to the CDC and becoming an FBI agent.“

 

“Why would you--” Shaw pauses, because what is the point in trying to understand why Root does the things she does, especially when the answer is always ‘because She wanted me to’ or ‘just because.’ 

 

Root replies anyway. “I like kids, okay. Before they can walk… or talk. Really, mostly when they're this age. So much potential, like staring at a blank screen, imagining all the things they could do, people they could be.” 

 

Her tone is that wondrous one, where you can't tell if she's bullshitting or if she’s serious, and Shaw doesn't care to tell the difference right now. She’s still stuck on the  _ Root likes babies _ thing. “Do we know why his number is up?”

 

The bottle makes a slight popping sound, the kid letting it go when it’s drained. Root covers her shoulder with a burping cloth she already had within easy reach, and starts this rubbing/patting motion over the expanse of the baby’s back. “Assuming he’s not the perp,” she starts with a proud smirk at her own joke, “I assume it has something to do with his mother.” She motions to a folder on the counter, marked: Andrea ‘Andie’ Motta.

 

The first page is a police report. “Mother’s missing?” Shaw’s question is rhetorical as the answer is on the page she’s still reading. Basic stuff: neighbors called 911 after hearing a loud argument and possible gunshots; police responded and found blood in the scene. Kid had been found in a neighbor’s apartment who usually babysat while the mother worked, and the same neighbor had their place ransacked, two hours after the police and ACS left, by some masked assailants looking for the infant. 

 

There is little doubt in Shaw’s mind that the case would probably be placed at the bottom of the very large list of missing persons. They’d be lucky if the NYPD actually worked this one before this kid could drive. “I can call Fusco,” she says.

 

“He’s already coming over for dinner,” Root informs her. 

 

The confused/horrified frown is practically permanent on Shaw’s face at this point. Root makes it sound like this entire situation is  _ normal _ , as if the crime scene photos in Shaw’s hands are takeout menus, and Lionel has some sort of standing invitation for dinner. 

 

Shaw focuses on the file again, trying to ignore the strangeness of it all. It’s not working. “Hmm, some of the files on the mother only goes back one year. I mean, other than the easy to fake stuff,” Shaw points out as she flips through the bank statements, credit history, tax returns, property records. The identity seems to pass the muster otherwise, good enough on the surface that even Finch would’ve been satisfied; but Shaw’s seen this before. “Witsec?” Could be part of the reason why they wouldn’t have gotten the mother’s number in time.

 

“That was my guess as well,” Root replies, right before the weirdest sound ever comes out of the kid’s mouth - at least Shaw hopes it was from the mouth. Root isn’t even fazed. “I tried to trace the mother’s identity back. All I found were a few grand jury indictments, but they were scans of physically redacted images.” 

 

Physically redacted scans mean even the Machine would be useless in decoding the missing info, and Shaw exhales in frustration. 

 

Root hums in reply. “I did find some familiar names though.”

 

Shaw continues to leaf through the papers, finds a list that’s a who’s who of organized crime in Jersey - primarily the Piccio family. The team’s standard contact would be Elias on this, but his input would be less than forthcoming with Finch and Reese away; he hasn’t exactly warmed up to Shaw yet. “Why stay in the tri-state area though? Wouldn’t they have relocated her elsewhere?” 

 

“I think I know,” Root explains as she unsnaps the lower part of the pastel yellow onesie, exposing a scar that stretches across the length of the lower back, right over the left kidney. Shaw moves closer so she can see better; it’s recent, still reddish but definitely healed enough it doesn’t require dressing anymore.

 

Shaw nods. “If the mother knew of any health issues… I guess it could account for her sticking around.”

 

“So we’ll have to keep an eye on him until we can find her,” Root adds as she carefully redoes the snaps on the onesie. “One way or another.”

 

The implications hang heavy in the air. Even if his number wasn’t up, putting the kid in the system is the last thing Shaw - either of them, really - wants to do.

  
  


*

  
  


Fusco knocks on the door shortly after 8pm, and Shaw tightens the grip on her gun when she sees a suspicious van behind Lionel. She ushers the detective inside and focuses on the driver of the van; it’s a young man, probably no older than twenty, grabbing a large plastic crate out of the back. Shaw notices the logo on the side of the vehicle, and on his hat as well - it’s for a small grocery store chain in the area, but it doesn’t do anything to reassure her; that’s easy enough to fake.

 

“Stand down." Root’s breath is right in Shaw’s ear, the way that always drives Shaw crazy - in all of the possible ways, though now she’s focused on anger. It’s made worse by the kid’s sticky little hands finding Shaw’s ponytail  _ very _ enticing from where he’s perched on Root’s arm. Shaw cringes at the unexpected annoyance. Root doesn’t even seem to notice. “Those are just some basic provisions I ordered.”

 

Shaw moves the gun to her left hand, out of the man’s sight, but she still glares at him: his face goes pale at her expression, and he stops in his tracks, a good six feet from the front door.

 

Root sighs at the impasse. “Here,” she says as she flawlessly swaps Avery for the nine mil in Shaw’s hand.

 

Shaw is staring in disbelief at the infant in her left arm. She already misses the security of the gun; she can drop a gun without killing it. The kid has curious fingers that touch everywhere he can reach on Shaw’s face, including but not limited to the inside of her nostrils. She has to pull away from him to nip that in the bud.

 

Meanwhile, Shaw’s gun gets tucked into the back of Root’s waistband, while she tips and thanks the delivery guy. After the door closes, she carries the bags to the counter, Shaw following instinctively, waiting for Root’s arms to be free again.

 

They find Lionel standing there, mouth agape; the fear is evident in his eyes. “Did I step into the Twilight Zone?” He gulps with some difficulty. “Please tell me you guys didn’t kidnap this one, too. It was bad enough with Glasses.”

 

“Why does everyone keep thinking I kidnapped him? It’s like no one has any faith in me.” Root starts to remove basic supplies from the bags. Diapers, baby food, formula, wipes, and items Shaw didn’t even know existed before. 

 

Fusco scoffs. “You’re right, my bad for thinking the crazy homicidal killer for hire could’ve kidnapped a baby along with the crazy homicidal vigilante chick. That is totally out of line.”

 

“I’ve changed, Lionel,” Root informs him as she takes out a yellow rubber duck from the bag, and squeezes it until it squeaks. Bear’s head perks up from where he was sleeping next to the dining room table, and Root sends the dog an almost apologetic look, mouths ‘oops’ as he drops his head back to his paws.

 

“Sure you have, Cocoa Puffs,” Fusco replies. 

 

“Check the file,” Shaw says, and she almost reaches for it but her hands are both full. The kid probably weighs eighteen pounds at most, but she doesn’t really want to test holding him with just one arm like Root was doing. Right now she’s just trying not to drop him. She’s not even sure why she’s still holding him in the first place, but Root appears to be busy sorting out the stuff that was delivered, and Fusco’s reading the report.

 

The baby stares at her intently, big brown eyes examining her face and for now the sticky hands aren’t touching her, which she appreciates. His face has a healthy olive-tinted blush to it, and the dark brown hair on his head is just starting to grow in, too short to even comb it. Other than when he’s crying, he seems to have this perpetual look of happiness and curiosity on his face, and he actually reminds her of Bear like that. He grins wider, his entire face scrunching with it, and she wonders what the hell there is to be so damn happy about.

 

“You’re gonna need a diaper,” Fusco warns her, sliding the pack down the kitchen counter towards her.

 

“What? Why?” She questions, as the scrunchy face turns red. 

 

Fusco laughs. “That ain’t a smile.”

 

Soon enough Shaw’s senses - primarily her sense of smell - realize exactly what Fusco meant and it’s  _ her _ face scrunching up in disgust. “Here, you do it,” she tries to hand him over to Lionel.

 

He shakes his head, the reading glasses he’s wearing to read the file slide down his face slightly. “Oh no, I’ve done my share and that was with my own kid. Plus I’m wearing my good suit.”

 

Shaw looks upwards and shakes her head, frustrated at the detective’s uselessness. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to ruin that polyester blend monstrosity.” She locks onto Root as her next target. Root, who should’ve probably been her primary target considering she got them into this whole mess, but Fusco had been closer.

 

“I’m kind of busy here, sweetie.” Root’s voice is theatric, sugary sweet, as she’s scooping powdered formula into a bunch of little plastic liners in the baby bottles. “You can disassemble and reassemble a Ruger MK in less than a minute, I’m sure you can figure out a diaper. The changing pad is in the bag behind you, or if you prefer the changing table, it’s in the nursery down the hall.”

 

Shaw is about to whine that it’s not  _ her _ kid and she didn’t sign up for this, but then again it’s not anyone’s kid at this point - especially if they don’t find Andie Motta.

 

She opts for the changing pad on top of a couch cushion, so she can have some back up if she screws up badly. Opening up the bottom of the onesie isn’t hard, and then Fusco throws some thin cloth at her.

 

“What’s this for?” Shaw asks.

 

“You’ll find out soon,” he replies amusedly.

 

She’s halfway through removing the dirty diaper when she almost gets hit with a stream of urine, and she has to scramble for the cloth. It’s a close call, for her and the couch cushion, but she manages in time. It’s followed by a brief memory of watching a circumcision during her residency, and she shudders.

 

The items she needs in addition to the diaper are methodically stored in the diaper bag, and it doesn’t take her very long to figure it all out. Wipes, rash cream, baby powder, new diaper. Sure, she doesn’t  _ want _ to be doing this, but she’s also proud she figures it out without any major incident. She does, however, mismatch the row of snaps on the onesie about four times before she gets it right. The normal, happy smile is back on the kid’s face, kicking his legs back and forth like he’s riding a tiny imaginary bike. 

 

Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t get the appeal of babies, but at least the socks are kind of… nice? Avery’s are so small and with paw prints everywhere, a cartoonish red dog on the top. Her hands reach out to trace it and he coos loudly, kicking his legs harder like he’s trying to get away from her, which is annoying because she’s  _ trying _ here, and she deserves some credit. She has to admit that most of her reasoning for reaching for the flailing toes is spite, but then this childish laughter escapes his mouth when she catches his feet with her fingers, and she finds herself smiling. He adds a string of pleased babbling to the end of his sentence.

 

She wonders if they make combat boots this small.

 

“Please tell me you’ve got cameras all over this place.” Fusco’s voice is completely serious.

 

She looks over the back of the couch to see Root smirking at him in silence. Shaw doesn’t miss the conspiratorial glance between the two. Not like she has anything to hide; it was just a stupid game.

 

“Food is here,” Root announces, obviously courtesy of the voice in her ear. Ten seconds later, someone rings the doorbell.

 

“It’s really creepy when you do that,” Fusco informs her as he gets up and shuffles to the front door.

  
  


*

  
  


Fusco left with the intent of swinging by the 43rd and have a talk with the lead detective on the mother’s MP case, see what leads they can follow in the morning, if any.

 

One of the advantages of this condo is that there is no patio, and no rear entrance, to worry about - probably so it wouldn't affect the preposterous modern architecture design. The living room is between the front door and the hallway that leads to the bedrooms and bath, so Shaw sets up camp on the couch. Bear doesn’t even have to be told; he just plops in front of the hallway after he gets back from his short walk.

 

“Shaw?” Root’s voice calls from afar, and Shaw sighs and shakes her head, considers ignoring it altogether. But that’ll only make Root shout louder, so Shaw finds herself stomping towards the source of the noise.

 

This whole thing is still puzzling, but somehow seeing Root kneeling on the bathroom floor, maroon sleeves rolled up, holding a squirming Avery as he sits in a bright yellow plastic tub, is probably the most absurd sight of Shaw’s life. 

 

“What?” Shaw bites at Root.

 

“I need the baby shampoo and both my hands are kind of full,” Root replies, tilting her head towards the little caddy on the other end of the tub. “Or hold him so I can reach.”

 

Avery is obviously displeased with the whole bath thing, and his protests are quickly escalating to cries.

 

“I don’t do the whole wet squirming crying package,” Shaw informs her, crossing her arms at the doorway to the bathroom.

 

Root smirks at Shaw, an innuendo obviously at the tip of her tongue.

 

“Shut up. You’ll probably scar the kid for life. I  _ meant _ I don’t do babies,” Shaw grumbles before stepping back into the bathroom and handing the shampoo over, just so Root will have something to do other than annoy Shaw to death.

 

Root complains: “I can’t get the bottle open.”

 

Shaw rolls her eyes, though she does get the flip top open. “Are you telling me the Machine can prepare you for anything, except giving a baby a bath? You should have all this stuff set out before you even start.”

 

“She gets confused,” Root shrugs. “Too much conflicting data on parenting.”

 

“You’re doing it wrong anyways,” Shaw replies as she watches Root pour almost a quarter of the bottle over Avery’s head. The liquid soap goes straight for his eyes and the cries of protest break into full screams.

 

Root grimaces. “It says ‘no tears’ on the bottle.”

 

“It’s full of shit,” Shaw offers, her head already throbbing in pain. “Move.”

 

She doesn’t remember that much about her peds rotation, in fact it had been her least favorite other than dermatology, but she has a very vague memory of watching the nurses showing parents how to give baths for post-op infants and toddlers. She leans Avery until his weight is mostly against the angled back of the yellow tub, her hand between his neck and the plastic for extra support. 

 

There’s a plastic cup floating nearby and she uses it to rinse his eyes with clear water, carefully avoiding his nose and mouth so he doesn’t inhale any of it. It takes several rinses before he quiets down, and Shaw’s headache fades as quickly as it began.

 

When his sobs turn mostly silent, she dumps the cup and uses her free hand to rub the soapy water methodically over his front; he’s still squirming, but once he can open his eyes again, he focuses on the ink on her forearm, reaching over to touch her. When she’s done washing his front, she angles him the opposite way, until she can do his back. It proves to be more difficult as the squirming gets worse, but she gets it done.

 

All in all, it’s just about as bad as giving Bear a bath in the winter; and in both cases she ends up with the front of her top drenched. “Towel.” She snaps her hand, and her voice is a lot like the one she used to use on ISA rookies, trying to make them be less useless.

 

Root uncharacteristically doesn’t say anything. Shaw turns to look at her once Avery’s rinsed off and sitting up more securely in the water. One would think Shaw just shot out an entire room while blindfolded with the way Root is looking at her. 

 

“What?” Shaw asks.

 

“You just seem very, uh… unexpectedly comfortable doing that.”

 

“I’m not.” Shaw deadpans. “But it’s not rocket science.”

 

“Yeah.” Root hands over the green towel, the one with weird frog eyes on the part that goes over the head. “Yeah,” she repeats dazedly, still looking at Shaw with that face.

 

Shaw shakes it off, and hands the calmer, towel-wrapped kid over like a stack of Harold’s books, methodically pushing him into Root’s arms. Her tank top is sticking to her skin uncomfortably, and she wonders if a trip back to her place is worth it; she wasn’t exactly expecting a mission involving a sleepover.

 

“My bag is in the master bedroom,” Root informs her.

 

Shaw finds it without issues, digs until she finds something that’ll fit - a 3/4 sleeve henley that looks stretchy enough. Her bra was mostly spared from the bathwater, so she keeps that; she’s still pulling the shirt on when she enters the nursery, just in time to see Root honest to god  _ tickling _ the squirming kid on the changing table.

 

“I see you found something appropriate to wear.” Root finishes snapping the pajamas closed. At least Shaw assumes they’re pajamas, but they don’t really look that different from the clothes from earlier. “Well, mostly appropriate,” Root adds, obviously checking out the way the fabric strains over Shaw’s chest.

 

Shaw fights the urge to cross her arms over her front - out of contempt, not modesty - but that would mean giving Root the upper hand. Instead she just replies: “Don’t you think you should focus on the kid instead of coming onto me?”

 

“I can do both,” Root assures her. “Plus the books all agree it’s important to keep the flame alive in a relationship after having kids.”

 

Shaw’s hands ball into fists at her side; Root is holding an infant, so it’s probably not the best time to deck her, but the urge is strong. Root just continues to smirk before pulling Avery up into her arms, and walking past Shaw. 

 

When Shaw makes it to the kitchen, Root is punching numbers on the touchscreen of the electric kettle before filling it up and waiting. Shaw opens the fridge to find it decently stocked as well, and grabs a water bottle.

 

“Why do you even have a safe house with all… this?” Shaw asks as she perches herself on one of the kitchen counters.

 

Root grins. “I like a challenge. Motherhood sounds kind of fun, doesn’t it?”

 

Shaw almost chokes on the water she is drinking.

 

“I’m kidding, Sameen,” Root adds. “Finch set it up some time ago, She mentioned something about a baby and a cardboard box? I’m not sure. Anyway, it's important to be prepared. Plus I needed to put a real address on my profile with ACS; I don’t think they’d find your apartment a suitable place to keep a child.”

 

“Why my place?” Shaw questions, slightly offended her apartment isn’t good enough. Granted, the fridge full of guns and ammo would probably be an issue. Also, she’s offended that Root thinks she can even  _ consider _ volunteering Shaw’s place for anything at all. Especially with the way Root keeps finding new ways to break in when she’s in town. And Shaw’s only recently stopped going into ‘I’m probably going to get tased again, so let me get a last punch in’ mode every time Root’s presence wakes her up. Which Root hasn’t - tased her again, that is - except for that one time, which Root still swears was Shaw’s fault.  (It was, but Shaw isn’t going to let that go.)

 

Root raises an eyebrow. “I don’t have a place, John booby trapped his after I broke in last time, and the library doesn’t even exist officially. Also, half the city knows where the main safe house is.”

 

“What about Harold’s?”

 

Root purses her lips and glances away, looking all around the top of the cabinets in the kitchen.

 

Shaw laughs softly as she slides off the counter and throws her empty water bottle into the trash. “You haven’t found it yet, have you?”

 

“She won’t tell me,” Root concedes.

 

The self-satisfied grin on Shaw’s face doesn’t slip, even if she also has no idea where the guy lives. He’s rather good at shaking off tails.

 

The electric kettle beeps loudly, but Bear doesn’t even stir from the spot where he’s laying. “Here,” Root says right before Shaw’s arms are full of baby again. 

 

Shaw’s not sure who to be more frustrated with: Root, who keeps doing that, or herself for not reacting quickly enough to avoid it. At least she’s getting confident enough that she can hold the kid with just one arm now.

 

Root busies herself with pouring the water into the lined bottle and mixing it with the formula she’d measured earlier. She doesn’t say anything as she shoves the bottle into Shaw’s free hand. “No,” Shaw argues, shoving the bottle and kid back in Root’s direction.

 

“I’ve gotta shower,” Root informs her, shoving the bottle back again, her shirt still damp with bathwater. “She got these new bottles that minimize air, so he probably won’t even need to be burped again.”

 

“No,” Shaw repeats, but Root’s already twelve feet away, and Avery starts to fuss at having the bottle in such proximity but not in his mouth. “Fine, you’re hungry, I get it,” Shaw says. “I can respect that.” Avery nods as if he understands her words, both hands holding the bottle now firmly in place. 

 

It’s not as bad as Shaw expected, but it still makes her uneasy. One thing is clear, though: he can’t cry with a bottle in his mouth, so it’s not as bad as it could be. It’s kinda boring, actually. Really boring. Just hanging out with someone who’s less of a conversationalist than she is.

 

She glances around the apartment while she waits; it’s sort of bare, but there’s enough furniture to probably qualify as cozy. There’s a bowl of dog food she hadn’t seen before filled with Bear’s favorite kibble, and Shaw knows she was played into doing… whatever it is Root’s got her doing.

 

The bottle hits her stomach, and she glances down to find the kid asleep. The shower is still going, and Shaw has no real other option other than heading for the nursery and carefully laying him in the crib. 

 

Using her honed ability to move quietly and efficiently -- one of the few things she’s got going in her favor at the moment -- she sneaks out of the room. Unfortunately for her, Root is coming out of the bathroom just as she’s closing the nursery door, an amused look on Root’s face as a wall of steam seems to follow and surround her. How long was she in the shower? It felt like an eternity.

 

“You owe me one,” Shaw informs her. “Or five.”

 

Root moves towards her, index finger hooking in the collar of the borrowed shirt Shaw’s wearing. “I think I can make it up to you somewhat.”

 

“I didn’t mean--” Shaw starts to argue, but then Root’s breath is ghosting over Shaw’s jaw.

 

Seconds or minutes pass, the intoxicating scent of Root’s shampoo surrounding Shaw. She tries to fight it - not well, not enough, just a little so she can live with herself later when she remembers this - but then Root’s lips are pressed against hers, and Shaw’s getting pushed forcefully against one of the walls. 

 

It’s a bad idea. It’s always a bad idea where Root is concerned, but Shaw keeps falling into the same trap over and over. Root’s touch brushes against the skin of Shaw’s stomach, and Shaw hisses in response, her skin burning as thumbs trace indiscernible patterns along every inch they can reach.

 

“Wait, wait,” Shaw objects into Root’s mouth. It’s one thing to do this in their downtime. Whatever this is, because Shaw doesn’t even want to call it a thing. It’s more of an unspoken agreement between two adults who enjoy getting off, and sometimes they get off with - or around - each other.  _ If  _ they happen to both be somewhere at the same time. Convenience, Shaw reasons. It’s faster and easier than using a fake identity and safe house, just so she can pick up a stranger at some shitty bar, and hope it’s worth her time.

 

(Root might be dangerous and unpredictable and a pain in the ass, but Shaw has to admit she never disappoints.)

 

The tautness of Root’s stomach is just inches away from hers, and Shaw can feel the heat radiating from Root. But Root’s pulled her head back, enough that Shaw could look into her eyes - if Shaw wanted to, that is, if she weren’t stuck staring at the sheen of moisture on Root’s bottom lip. 

 

It’s always unexpected how Root pushes and pushes and pushes, but when it matters, all it takes is a word or a look from Shaw to give her pause; how Root can go from a smug, flirtatious little shit, to completely serious and concerned. Caring, also, but Shaw tries not to dwell on that.

 

“The kid,” Shaw grumbles. Words aren’t coming easily to Shaw, so she hopes Root gets the point.

 

“Anyone would need to get past that reinforced lock, the alarm system, Bear, and the master bedroom door to get to Avery. Not to mention She would see them long before that,” Root points out.

 

“The place is made of glass,” Shaw adds. There are retractable blinds everywhere, but still. Glass. 

 

Root doesn’t even blink. “Triple layered, ballistic, architectural glass, Sameen. And no windows for any perp to crawl through. Practically a fortress.”

 

Shaw sighs in defeat. She has a list of objections - including the fact that it’s just weird with a kid two doors away - but she doesn’t care enough at the moment  _ not  _ to do it. It’s hardly the worst place or situation they’ve done this in, and with that rationalization fresh on her mind, she pushes Root into the master bedroom.

 

Their clothes form a trail from the door to the bed, and it feels like it’s been too long, which it probably has, because Root keeps disappearing and then showing up at inopportune times. It pisses Shaw off (the showing up part, not the leaving, of course), though Shaw doesn't mind it as much this time. It’s a relief to have Root, here and now, primarily for baby-handling reasons.

 

Also for reasons that involve Root’s teeth against Shaw’s pulsing carotid, and a strategically placed thigh against--

 

The wailing starts next to Shaw’s left ear, the baby monitor turned up to an ungodly volume on the nightstand. She considers throwing the thing against the nearest wall, but Root’s already reaching for it and flicking it off.

 

Root is halfway out the door, pulling a shirt on, before Shaw can even register what just happened. It’s actually scary how fast Root moved just there, and Shaw has actually seen her dodge bullets.

 

“You didn’t leave the nightlight on,” Root chides from the doorway, looking upset as she rocks Avery back and forth.

 

It’s not like Shaw knew the kid  _ needed _ a night light. She doesn’t even bother arguing, just gathers up her clothes in a bundle and pushes her way to the couch, which she hopes will be far enough from the crying kid and Root’s disapproving glance.

  
  


*

  
  


Being woken up at 3am isn’t that unusual for Shaw; she got plenty of practice over the years, but she’s used to being woken up by a pager, an alarm or a phone call, not blood curdling cries.

 

She shoves the pillow over her ears and does her best to tune it out. She succeeds somewhat when the cries diminish in volume. Then she hears Root shuffling back and forth, followed by the adhesive of a diaper coming unstuck, and Shaw dozes off again shortly after.

 

The electric kettle wakes her up once more around 4:30am, and she sits up to see Root moving through the kitchen looking absolutely exhausted. Avery is cradled in her arms, which Shaw thinks it’s fair because Root did this to herself, or the Machine did this to her. Not that there’s much of a difference these days.

 

(Shaw also doubts Root’s exhaustion can be fully attributed to taking care of the kid - it’s probably more related to weeks of running around the globe without proper rest. It’s not the first time Shaw’s noticed the heavy eyelids or the bags under the eyes, when the cover identity  _ du jour _ ’s makeup is washed away.)

 

“Fuck,” Root hisses when the back of her hand brushes against the hot kettle. The water itself is set to just to 99F, the optimal temperature for baby formula, but the metal container is still hot enough to sting. Shaw considers leaving Root to her own devices, but sleep feels like a distant memory at this point. It’s a good thing Shaw’s used to running on little to no sleep - she likes it, but she doesn’t  _ need _ it.

 

The skin of Root’s hand is slightly pinker than usual when Shaw examines it, but it definitely doesn’t need any ointment or treatment. “You look like shit.” She pushes Root out of the way, and grabs the baby bottle and the kettle.

 

“You know how to make a girl feel special, Sameen,” Root replies, but it comes off less flirtatious than usual when it’s punctuated by a yawn. Avery isn’t crying yet, just these tiny little hiccup-like noises and wordless babbling, rubbing at his eyes with little fists. Shaw’s only been around the kid for half a day, but she knows it’ll turn into full blown crying if she doesn’t work fast.

 

The bottle liner has little markers and she sighs with relief, because she has no idea what the proper water-to-formula ratio is, or how much 6-month-olds eat. At least Root did the tough part, this and another half dozen bottles on the counter pre-filled with the right amount of formula.

 

“Here,” Shaw tests the mixed formula on her wrist. She doesn’t really know what she’s doing, and she figures testing this on someone with such a high pain threshold is kind of pointless - but it feels fine, so she hands the made bottle over. Root opens her mouth, presumably to thank her, but Shaw just shakes her head, and pushes Root in the direction of the hallway (and away from her).

 

The hacker barely misses stepping on Bear’s tail on her way down the hallway - misses only because he moves it in time. His face looks confused when he meets Shaw’s gaze. “I don’t know, buddy.” Shaw shrugs, before walking past him towards the bathroom.

 

When she’s done, she is about to head towards the couch again when she hears a loud snore. She pokes her head into the master bedroom to find Root sitting up against the headboard, Avery propped up with his back against Root’s stomach. Somehow, her hand is still holding the bottle in his mouth, despite the fact that she’s obviously passed out. His eyes are drooping, and Shaw’s sure as hell not gonna move him back to the crib and risk the ear piercing crying again.

 

Shaking her head at herself as she moves towards the bed, Shaw uses the throw pillows to form a rectangle in the middle of the bed. She waits until the bottle’s fully drained to carefully move the unconscious kid to the impromptu pillow fort she built. Root stirs at the movements, tensing at the sudden emptiness of her arms. She relaxes when she finds it’s just Shaw, dozing off again almost instantly.

 

Shaw tugs on Root’s ankles unceremoniously - tight enough to be uncomfortable, but not hard enough to disturb the sleeping infant - until an unconscious Root is mostly horizontal on the mattress. The last thing Shaw needs is for them to have to go after perps with Root whining about a sore neck.

 

Shaw is almost to the door when she remembers something about kids rolling off beds if they can turn in their sleep, which she’s fairly sure six-month-olds can do. There’s also a random memory about the danger of co-sleeping, and adults smothering infants, but Root sleeps like the dead anyway, so Shaw doesn’t think it’ll be an issue. 

 

Yet she finds herself slipping into the empty spot on the bed anyway, on the other side of the kid. She almost groans at how much more comfortable the bed is compared to the couch. There's the added security of Root’s gun on the bedside table, clip sitting next to it.

  
Sleep seems like an improbability, and now slow colorful rays of approaching sunrise are filtering into the room. Shaw gave up on it the moment the kettle went off, but despite all that, her eyes still drift shut.

*


	2. Chapter 2

*

  
  


It’s springtime in New York, but there’s still a chill in the air. Shaw doesn’t mind it, as a jacket makes it even easier to conceal firearms.  She’s putting on her knit hat when she sees Root carrying Avery into the living room. “You’re kidding, right?” 

 

“What?” Root asks innocently. 

 

“He’s not a sailor. Why the hell is he dressed like one?”

 

“I didn’t pick the clothes that She had delivered,” Root points out. “And he looks great. I didn’t think you’d care.” 

 

Shaw ignores the victorious look on Root’s face. The kid is still gonna be seen  _ near  _ her and she would rather he didn’t look stupid, that’s it. “I don’t,” she grumbles. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

 

Root places the kid in the stroller, two thick blankets over him, except she doesn’t bother strapping him in. Shaw rolls her eyes as she reaches to fix that - like  _ seriously _ , it’s just common sense. But Root isn’t paying attention, choosing instead to slide the two semi automatics into the waistband of her pants. 

 

“It’s this, or staking out Enzo Piccio’s warehouse in Jersey with Lionel,” Root points out. The leads on the mother weren’t panning out. Fusco grumbled at having to sit on the house of one of the Piccios, considering it’s not in his jurisdiction, and he’s going to be pissed if his new lieutenant reams him over this. “It’ll give us a chance to check if there are any threats close by. It'll be a walk in the park.” She grins at the pun.

 

Bear perks up considerably at the word ‘walk,’ checking with Shaw before going into full excitement. She clips his leash on and opens the front door; he tugs gently when she doesn’t move quickly enough for him.

 

There is a park with a jungle gym at the end of the block, and they make their way there slowly, Root pushing the stroller while Shaw and Bear check for anything or anyone suspicious around them. Satisfied with finding neither for the time being, Shaw spots a vendor outside the park.

 

“Two coffees, and three of those danishes,” Shaw orders. 

 

“Only one left, sorry,” the man says, handing her two cups and the single pastry.

 

Shaw bites into it, ignores the begging whine from Bear and Root’s pout. “What? You heard the man, there was just one.”

 

Root pouts harder as she pushes the stroller ahead. They take a seat on this long wooden bench, already filled with parents and caretakers alike. Loud miniature humans run all over, and Shaw tries to tune it out so she can observe their surroundings. Bear examines the grassy area behind the bench, sniffing all over. 

 

“Is that your first?” a woman asks, leaning into Shaw’s personal space to glance at the stroller, almost entirely across Shaw’s front. Shaw freezes and fights the urge to reach for her gun.

 

“So far,” Root singsongs with what is probably supposed to be a hopeful smile, but Shaw finds it more threatening than anything. Maybe because she feels it’s like a direct threat to her.

 

Shaw remains in silence, but the woman is still leaning over her, especially now that Root has engaged her in conversation.

 

“Boy or girl?” 

 

“A boy, thank  _ goodness _ . Avery. ” Root pulls the blankets down to proudly display the kid. Shaw sighs impatiently; it’s a  _ baby _ , they all look the same, what’s the freaking point. It’s not even Root’s kid, and it’s definitely not  _ their _ kid, and she’s going to seriously kill Root when this is over. Killing her now would mean solo duty with the kid, and Shaw’s not going to deal with that.

 

Also what would be wrong with a girl? Why does any of it matter? Shaw never realized how much people care about this inconsequential shit, as if trying to keep a kid alive long enough to graduate high school isn’t enough of a challenge.

 

“He’s so handsome! And what a beautiful name.”

 

“Sameen’s idea,” Root says, her head coming dangerously close to Shaw’s shoulder. She’s obviously implying Shaw’s the mother - or the other mother or something, either way, Shaw has had enough of this.

 

“No, it wasn’t,” Shaw argues, and uses both hands to push both women apart, and out of her personal space. The woman to Shaw’s left looks slightly put out - and so does Root to her right, but Shaw is more than fine with that. 

 

“Oh, right, you actually wanted Avery for a girl. You were gunning for… was it Hunter for a boy, sweetie?” Root teases.

 

Shaw’s going to be gunning for Root soon, if she keeps trying to involve Shaw in further small talk with the nosy lady. Hoping the conversation will end if she doesn’t take Root’s bait, Shaw keeps quiet.

 

“But, you know, Avery worked for a boy too,” Root continues anyway, and the woman nods.

 

“That’s my daughter, Paisley,” the woman points at a kid, probably four or five, hanging from the monkey bars. “My oldest kids were in college, and there I was, forty-eight and pregnant again!”

 

Root stage-gasps, and Shaw has no idea how the hacker is any good at going undercover, because it is  _ horrible _ acting. Though she supposes most people probably can’t see through the overt friendliness like she can. Root’s identities are always so polite, it makes Shaw grit her teeth. 

 

“That must’ve been quite the shock,” Root adds. 

 

The woman laughs amusedly. “It sure was. Was Avery planned?”

 

Shaw shakes her head, because first of all, who the hell just asks that. What is it with moms and discussing personal things like they’re talking about the weather? (‘Oh, did you push this one out of your vagina, or did someone perform major abdominal surgery on you?’ or ‘Here is how your decision on child-rearing will most certainly ruin your child’s life, even though you didn’t ask.’) 

 

And secondly, the woman had obviously not picked up on the very un-subtle hints Root has been dropping about their... situation.

 

The  _ fake _ situation that Shaw doesn’t even want to pretend to be a part of, but really, it’s the principle of it. “No, he was an accident. She slipped on a turkey--” her deadpan delivery is ruined by a sharp pain in her ribs, courtesy of Root’s extremely pointy elbow. It has enough strength that Shaw actually recoils with a curse under her breath.

 

Root glares. “Forgive her, always with the  _ inappropriate _ jokes.”

 

“Oh, right,” the woman adds in haste, finally catching on. “Well, you have a beautiful family.”

 

Root beams in response, and Shaw is still rubbing at her sore ribs. 

 

Avery starts to fuss in the stroller, quickly working towards full cries, and for the first time Shaw’s grateful for that. It gives her the excuse to get away from fake mom Root - with her creepy proud gaze - and the overly talkative menopausal mom.

 

“I got it,” Shaw says, standing up and pushing the stroller away from the two women. Bear runs towards her, falling into step by her side. To her relief, the movement of the stroller calms Avery down almost instantly. “Thanks, kid. I owe you one.”

 

He just babbles back at her, and she still hates that sailor outfit.

  
  


*

  
  


Root finds an excuse to slip away at lunch time, claiming the Machine has some errand for her to run. 

 

“Come on, Shaw.” She’s wearing a teasing smile as she gets ready. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of being by yourself.”

 

Shaw narrows her eyes at the woman. “I’m not. This just isn’t my thing, alright?”

 

“Last I checked, it wasn’t my thing either.” Root slips into her coat, carefully pulling her hair out of the collar. “Also, you are always good at situations that are supposedly not your  _ thing _ .”

 

Her teeth grind almost on their own, like an involuntary reflex at this point; Shaw curses ever giving in when it comes to Root. Though one can make the argument that Root has always been this insufferable, and it’s unlikely Shaw would be spared, even if they didn’t have... whatever it is they have.

 

(She still refuses to name it, like a stray cat. If you name it then it’s harder to ignore it.)

 

“The jars of baby food are in the first cabinet, and the high chair is in the walk-in pantry.” Root is pleased enough at herself for getting under Shaw’s skin that she leaves without further conversation, to Shaw’s relief.

 

When Avery falls asleep still in the stroller, Shaw leaves him there while she makes herself some lunch. She spends half an hour playing fetch with Bear, up and down the hallway, before Bear too falls asleep. 

 

The clock has barely moved at all, and she wishes she’d brought a gun cleaning kit or  _ something _ . Shaw doesn’t want anything to do with feeding the kid, but Finch didn’t get a TV for the safe house and she’s bored, so it’s almost a relief when Avery stirs awake.

 

The high chair looks like a torture device, and the kid’s looking at her like he can’t believe she would betray him like this. His table manners leave a lot to be desired, which she can identify with; he tugs ineffectively at the safety straps around his lap, refusing to eat another spoonful until he’s freed. 

 

“I’ll get you out of there, kid, but you’ve gotta finish this first.” Her tone is as diplomatic as it’ll ever get, and she glances at the label on the jar of baby food. Pear, chicken and wild rice. No wonder babies cry all the time. She’d cry too if she had to eat nothing but fake milk or this. It must taste worse than Finch’s attempt at a risotto. 

 

Before she can carefully consider it, she lifts the ladybug-themed plastic spoon to her mouth. It’s the consistency of applesauce, but she can definitely taste the chicken as well. She lets it sit on the tongue for several seconds, trying to identify the wild rice, before she remembers she’s not doing a tasting to pair this with the right beer or wine.

 

She dips the spoon in the jar again and holds it up in front of the kid’s face. “Come on, it’s not that bad. Not good, either, but it could be a lot worse, trust me.” The kid looks impressed with her, because he takes the next spoonful without any fuss.

  
  


*

  
  


Shaw is woken up by a hand on her shoulder. Her reaction is the same as always, instantly reaching for the culprit. It takes a second or two for her eyes to focus, and when they do she sees her right hand twisted in the front of Root’s collar. Shaw could’ve gone a couple of different ways from there: a headbutt (unpleasant for her and the other person), a strong thumb to the pressure point near the carotid (dangerous and possibly fatal), or Shaw’s favorite, tugging the assailant down with her left hand while bringing her knee up, creating the satisfying noise of knees meeting ribs that she enjoys so much.

 

Alas, Root lives to breathe another day, because Shaw realizes her left hand is busy where it instinctively wraps around Avery’s small body, holding him even more tightly than she had been while asleep. 

 

“Don’t do that,” Shaw admonishes Root. “I could have killed you.”

 

“Promises, promises,” Root teases when her collar is let go. It’s probably ruined now anyway, all warped. Shaw’s mouth goes dry at the sight of the faint mark left by her knuckles, light red, against the pale base of Root’s neck . “I almost didn’t wake you up… the two of you were quite a sight.”

 

“I was bored out of my mind.” She rubs the heel of her hand against her eye, trying to shake off the urge to pull Root by her collar again. Shaw doesn’t even remember falling asleep, just giving the kid a bottle on the couch and then… nothingness. Suddenly, it’s 8pm and she feels like she’s slept the day away. “How the hell do people do this 24/7?”

 

The most exciting part of the day was when she went to the bathroom and left Avery sitting on the living room rug. And then she came back to find the kid in the kitchen, hand in Bear’s food bowl and three nuggets of kibble sticking out of his mouth. Shaw isn't going to be making that public knowledge anytime soon.

 

Root shakes her head, still towering above Shaw. “Most people aren’t adrenaline junkies, Sameen.” 

 

“I’d settle for  _ any _ adrenaline at this point.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Shaw regrets them. (A little… not as much as she should, but she  _ is _ really bored, and Root’s neck is still in her line of sight.)

 

“Maybe later,” Root whispers, pressing her lips against Shaw’s. It’s not even a kiss, more like the ghost of one - before Shaw can process it’s happening, Root is already four feet away, placing a handful of folders on the coffee table.

 

Shaw scoots to the edge of the couch, grabs the first folder and starts reading it. “These are the unredacted files? How the hell did you get access to these?”

 

“Did you know Agent Augusta King has a lot of friends at the DOJ?” Root answers, obviously too proud of herself. 

 

“I can’t believe you have a lot of friends anywhere,” Shaw challenges, reading two more pages. “Or any, really. Other than the friend in your ear.”

 

“Guess my  _ friend _ can have your dinner then,” Root proposes as she goes to retrieve the bags of takeout food.

 

Shaw’s stomach growls timely (or untimely, as she would argue), and she realizes she’s still holding the kid. As in, for a few minutes there, she literally forgot about the sticky drool on her neck, the eighteen pounds of deadweight in her arm, or the fact that she’s been reading an entire report with just one hand.

 

“Should we wake him up?” Root brings the takeout containers around, unsure of what to do.

 

Shaw’s just really glad Root wasn’t serious about withholding food. “It’s fine.” She dismisses Root’s concern. Chinese wouldn’t have been her choice, but it smells delicious, and she is sure as hell not gonna turn it down. 

 

Root thankfully doesn’t say anything as she passes an open box of broccoli beef to Shaw, who picks a fork over chopsticks for convenience’s sake. Bear wanders over for any dropped food, which isn’t much because Shaw is managing to balance the box between her knees, the grand jury indictment brief on her right thigh, and the kid against her torso, on her left arm. 

 

Pick up fork, take a bite, put the fork down, turn page over. Easy stuff, really. This trainer used to make everyone in her unit practice basic survival with one hand tied behind their back, and this isn’t really any different. You never know when your hand’s gonna get broken by an insurgent. That sarge probably has no idea this skillset is pretty damn useful in civilian life as well.

 

An unsatisfied Bear goes to Root, who’s sitting on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. She gives him a few pieces of her entree. “Finch’s gonna kill you.”

 

Root shrugs, breaking into one of her smirks. “He won’t know.”

 

“I don’t know, your friend sure likes to snitch,” Shaw points out while chewing three pieces of broccoli. Shaw’s not even sure why she’s picking on the Machine, other than it’s usually a fun way to get under Root’s skin. 

 

Root turns her way and she frowns pensively; Shaw thinks she might’ve actually upset her, but there’s more confusion than hurt there. “Did you let Avery near Bear’s kibble?” she probes. “And did you eat baby food?”

 

Shaw freezes on the spot, mid-chewing. Is this damn computer actually trying to piss her off? Before she can struggle for an answer, Avery jerks once in her arms, waking himself up with the tiniest of sneezes she’s ever witnessed. Unfortunately, it comes with normally sized snot, and for the first time in her life, Shaw’s appetite is ruined. 

 

Root doesn’t even say anything, just passes her a handful of napkins and takes the almost empty takeout container from Shaw’s knees. 

 

“I can take him,” Root offers, when the worst of it is wiped off.

 

“What’s the point? At least I was almost done.” She gets up to head towards the nursery with him. 

 

The wet wipes are at least useful to clean his face and her shirt, and she changes the almost full diaper before he starts whining about that. 

 

“You’ve got both the worst and the best timing I’ve ever seen,” she whispers to him. He pulls his foot to his mouth in reply when she’s done.

 

When she returns to the living room, Root has cleared up the food containers. She has also repositioned so that she is sitting sideways on the couch, two folders on her lap.  “Here,” Shaw says, handing the kid to Root, and taking a seat at the other end of the couch.

 

Root pulls the folders out of the way so Avery is on her lap, his back to her stomach, and his hands reaching for the papers she’s holding up in front of him. He can see Shaw every time Root lifts the folder to turn the page, and he starts babbling and laughing every time it happens. 

 

Shaw ignores it at first, but then starts waiting for it, staring back at him with a (fake) serious glare. He just babbles louder. Root pretends she doesn’t notice any of it, but she does a shitty job at it, because Shaw can see the barely suppressed grin on the woman’s face.

 

“A couple of conspiracy to commit murder charges, RICO charges everywhere, hardly surprising,” Shaw comments between pages. “Looks like the Piccios pissed off a lot of people -- this is a pretty big list of witnesses for a grand jury. Would definitely not be surprised if one of them was feeding info back to the family.”

 

Root hums in agreement. 

 

Shaw makes a list of names and hands it to Root when she’s done. “Now we gotta narrow this down.”

 

“This one,” Root replies, pointing to the second name on the list. Her expression is solemn and she lowers her cheek until it brushes against the top of Avery’s head.

 

“Sandra Ramazotti? The money launderer? Did She tell you that?” Shaw asks, without any of the attitude from earlier. 

 

Root shakes her head. “The conspiracy to commit murder was a last minute charge. Victim was Jaime Aginelli, one of their own, the son of Enzo Piccio’s former consigliere.” She hands Shaw a photo of the vic and Sandra Ramazotti, aka Andie Motta - Avery’s mother. “It says Sandra here had to leave the courtroom because she was ‘indisposed.’” She brushes her hand against Avery’s head. 

 

“That shit would definitely cause a rift in the family and the whole organization.” Shaw sighs. “You think Jaime is Avery’s father?”

 

“Seems like it sparked the case. Most of the evidence is from the three week period after that happened, and almost all of it was forensic accounting information, which Sandra would have access to.” Root points out. “And there was no body… they pretty much got away with the murder charge.”

 

Shaw can see how deflated Root has been for the past few minutes, and she knows there's a story there that goes beyond this kid and his mom. Something about an MIA father or this case, that’s opened something in the locked compartment of Root’s memory.

 

While Shaw’s pretty good at identifying those hidden stories, she is just not inclined to sympathize with people when they’re distant or upset; she takes notice of that evidence, files it away, but never presses or worries about it. This time, however, there's a question or two stuck in Shaw’s throat that she barely manages to hold in. Instead, she nudges at Root’s socked foot. “Let’s make sure they don’t get away with another one.” 

  
  


*

  
  


Bear takes his sweet ass time on his last trip outside for the day, and Shaw tries to come up with a plan for the following day. Fusco called with four addresses for them to check out, except they’re short on manpower, and she and Root kept fighting about how they’ll go about it.

 

Or, in other words, Root teased, Shaw rolled her eyes, Root used unrelated information obtained via the Machine, Shaw argued, Root flirted. Shaw resisted the urge to kill her, all while trying to keep them on track, and accidentally making it sound like she was more worried for Root’s well-being than she actually is. 

 

It is a vicious circle at this point, and the whole thing was made worse by the fact the entire conversation took place while Root prepared the kid for bed. Shaw was actually grateful for Bear’s not-so-gentle requests to be let out, so she could leave the house, and get away from… whatever seems to happen when she’s in there. Maybe it’s the weird architecture fucking with her brain. 

 

She refuses to be benched another day. There’s a very distinct possibility Shaw will blow up if she doesn’t get to shoot something very soon. She sighs, frustrated at Root but also at herself, for even leaving this up for discussion in any way, shape or form. Shaw’s definitely putting her foot down now.

 

“What?” she asks Bear when he comes back to her, sitting expectantly by her feet. “You know,  _ I  _ don’t get treats every time I pee in the right place.” He whimpers, and she narrows her eyes at him. When he doesn’t break focus, she digs into her pocket for the treat. She throws it in his direction, watching as he catches it without any difficulty. The fur behind his ear is cold but soft when she rubs it, his face nuzzling against her side.

 

Her makeshift bed on the couch is already made up, and she fills the kettle with water - she might not be made for this crap, but it _will_ save some time in the middle of the night, and she's always proactive when the situation calls for it.

 

Bear polishes off what's left of his dinner before he plops down at the entrance to the hallway, taking up his guard post. Shaw gives him another treat just for that.

 

She steels herself as she heads into the master bedroom to lay out the plan for the next day. “I'm not sitting around all day tomorrow, doing nothing again,” Shaw says. She can see the light coming from inside the walk-in closet, filtering into the dimly lit bedroom.

 

“It’s not ‘doing nothing,’ Sameen,” Root’s disembodied voice is saccharine, and slightly muffled.

 

Shaw exhales impatiently. “Then  _ you _ can stay home with the kid!” 

 

“How about we discuss it in the morning?” 

 

Shaw pinches the bridge of her nose. “No, because I know you. I will wake up, find that the voice in your ear conveniently told you to get your ass somewhere, and I will be saddled with the kid again.”

 

“Oh, please…” Root scoffs. “And She is not pleased with the implication that she would send me on any unnecessary errands, sweetie.”

 

Shaw rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right, sur…” The words get cut off as Root re-enters the room, in nothing but her underwear. That's not even the distracting part, as she is holding a submachine gun, compact and beautiful. “Is that a SOFIC 2015?”

 

“With the updated suppressor.” Root holds it up for inspection. 

 

Okay, the partial nudity isn't helping either, and Shaw’s mouth goes dry. Honestly, it’s the whole combo. “I thought these were still in prototype.”

 

Root tilts her head with a smirk as she hands the gun over. “Not if you know the right people.”

 

She inspects the sleekness of the lightweight body that she can’t wait to shoot (the gun, not Root). That reminds her of their standoff regarding the next day’s plans, and she narrows her eyes at Root. “You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? Trying to distract me?”

 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Root replies with her horrible poker face. “I was just setting aside what I--”

 

“Me,” Shaw interrupts.

 

“... or you, will need tomorrow.” Root takes the carrying case from under the bed, and Shaw has to hold in a whimper as she hands over the gun to be put away. “Why? Are you distracted?”

 

Shaw can think of about a dozen different ways to wipe the smug look off Root’s face - and honestly they all would probably lead to the same outcome - but she goes for the simplest, at least in these circumstances. Shaw wouldn’t want to have Fusco running interference because the neighbors called the cops. 

 

(Because he won’t let that drop now. It was  _ one time _ at her old place.)

 

The wall is taken under consideration for a quick five seconds, before Shaw pushes Root towards the queen sized bed instead. Shaw tells herself that decision has nothing to do with their height difference, but truly she does not have the time or patience for Root to tease her right now; she’s not in the mood to play keep away. 

 

“Eager, aren’t we?” Root teases from under her.

 

Shaw is kneeling on the edge of the mattress, between Root’s legs, and she pauses. “I am not risking another interruption,” Shaw declares matter-of-factly. “And you really need to shut up before I change my mind.”

 

“Somehow,” Root says as Shaw tries to catch up to her level of undress. “I don’t think that’s gonna happen.” 

 

As Shaw works on removing her top, she’s not sure if Root means Shaw won’t change her mind, or if Root won’t shut up. Root uses Shaw’s distraction with removing her top to flip them over. 

 

“Don’t worry, Sameen. I’ll be quick. The first time, I mean.”

 

Shaw… can’t really argue with that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where I pretend there's actually a plot beyond "Root and Shaw accidental baby acquisition" and y'all pretend this isn't contrived af.

*

 

Shaw groans as the cries filter in through the baby monitor. At least the sun is already up this time, and if she didn’t get enough sleep this time, she can’t really blame it on Avery. He’d only woken up once during the night, and passed right back out after half a bottle.

 

“I’ll go get a bottle,” Root offers.

 

“He just needs to be changed,” Shaw grumbles in her sleep. .

 

“No, She has been cataloguing his cries. This one is hunger.”

 

“Well, I’ve been cataloguing my own headaches, and this one means the kid has a full diaper.” Shaw is gonna need a damn vacation of her own when this is over; she can handle the sleep deprivation fine, it’s the full-time Root that’s exhausting her.  _ Mentally _ .

 

Also physically, Shaw concedes as her legs feel heavy, and arms feel tired, but it’s nothing compared to her wrist-- okay she needs to get out of this place ASAP. She’s aging faster and faster with every breath. The house also feels really cold, and she resists the urge to burrow further under the covers.

 

“Five million dollars?” Root sits up, and swings her legs over the edge of the mattress. She’s already miles away, in her own head. Shaw sighs as she gets out of bed so Root can chat with her  _ friend _ .

 

Her shorts are inside out when Shaw pulls them on, but she doesn’t care enough to fix it. A quick glance towards the living room shows a peacefully slumbering Bear, so she crosses the hallway towards the nursery. The kid’s cries die down a bit, when he sees Shaw through the slats of the crib.

 

“Hey there, buddy,” she says, in a slightly more dignified voice than she uses with Bear (but not by much). She picks him up effortlessly, even if the full diaper feels like it adds ten pounds to his weight.

 

(Take that, ASI. Point, Shaw.)

 

Avery doesn’t protest the diaper change, just throws gibberish at Shaw while she takes care of it. “Riveting conversation,” she informs him. “At least  _ you _ don’t talk to an imaginary friend.”

 

“I heard that,” Root says from the doorway, fully dressed, and holding a bottle. “And my imaginary friend told me the Piccio family got shorted five million dollars, by someone who stashed it in the Caymans.”

 

“Yeah?” Shaw asks, handing the kid over to Root to be fed.

 

“The account was untouchable, even took Her a while to trace it.”

 

Shaw frowns as she throws the dirty diaper into the disposal bin. “Was?” 

 

“Someone accessed one of the accounts, a week ago. Withdrew half a mil. I think someone’s mother had a rainy day fund,” she informs Avery. She tries get him to lean back into the crook of her arm, but he keeps fighting it. He grasps at her hair, reaching for a perfectly spiraled curve. 

 

The timing is obviously too coincidental. “And it rained,” Shaw concludes. She isn’t sure how Root looks so  _ composed _ , it seems unfair when Shaw looks like she ran six miles in the rain and then fell asleep. “Five million dollars is a lot of money. Enough to try and use a kid as leverage.”

 

Root nods, as she struggles with getting the rubber nipple in the kid’s mouth.

 

“Told you he’s not hungry.” Shaw shakes her head. It is strange though, especially since he’d barely had anything to eat during the night, but she doesn’t know if this out of the ordinary. It’s only the second night they’ve been around him, how could they even tell?

 

Root gives up on the bottle and brushes the kid’s head with her chin. “Does he feel kind of warm to you?”

 

Shaw frowns, reaching over to press the back of her hand against his skin. “I thought it was just really cold in here.” He definitely feels feverish now that Shaw’s hands aren’t numb and cold. “I’ll check for a thermometer. Harold’s too anal not to have one in here, somewhere. No pun intended,” she tells Avery. “I hope.”

 

She strikes gold under the sink, and bless Finch’s nerdy soul, it’s a temporal scanner thermometer. Root is still standing at the doorway of the nursery, looking slightly panicked. 

 

“It’s fine.” Shaw scans his forehead with the probe, watches the digital display read 101.6F. “It’ll be fine. Kids have fevers all the time. He’s probably just teething or something.” She’s babbling, she’s aware, but Root is still looking stricken, and Shaw isn’t sure how to handle this. Shaw tries to snap her out of it. “Root...”

 

“I shouldn’t have done this. I have no idea what I’m doing. This-- this isn’t a  _ job _ , it’s not an identity,” she stammers. 

 

“Root, listen to me,” Shaw says, gripping Root’s arm. “This is normal. It happens to regular parents, foster parents, and babysitters alike. I can stay with him, go follow the lead on the wire transfer.”

 

“You said you needed to get out--” 

 

Shaking her head, Shaw reaches for the kid. “Don’t worry about me, I can survive another day with him. Trust me, the biggest danger here is boredom. Go.” For once, she hopes the computer in the sky - or in Root’s ear  - will back Shaw up, and get Root out of here.

 

Shaw does fine in crisis mode, always thrived in it, actually. What she can’t handle is Root having a fit over this when there’s a woman to save. Finch and Reese  _ really _ owe them one.

 

Root disappears into the master bedroom and comes back with the carrying case for the SMG, and a leather jacket; she’s definitely ready to go to work on these guys. Shaw is only slightly envious, but mostly she really wants to them to find this kid’s mother - more now than before.

 

“Are you sure...?” Root checks again.

 

Shaw sighs in exasperation. “You’re wasting time.”

 

Root nods once, and then she’s out the door.

  
  


*

  
  


Shaw doesn’t feel boredom this time around. She lets Bear out, feeds him, makes some breakfast for herself. Then she tries to give the kid his bottle two more times, before giving up and tossing that mix down the drain.

 

Avery’s fever isn’t better, but it also isn’t any worse. He’s somewhat content for the time being, on the playmat in the open area between the kitchen counter and the couch, so she sits on one of the kitchen table chairs, sorting once again through the folders Root had obtained.

 

There’s a steady beep in Shaw’s ear. “How’s he doing?” Root’s voice filters in.

 

“He’s fine,” Shaw reassures her. “You?”

 

“First place was a bust. I’m heading to the second address on Lionel’s list.”

 

“Keep me updated.” Shaw looks at the evidence photos, seeing Jaime and Sandra happy, then another photo of a crime scene, the concrete stained with what is believed to be Jaime’s blood. “Root, be careful,” Shaw adds softly. At that moment she doesn’t care if she sounds vulnerable, or if Root will tease her for caring.  

 

The comm link just beeps as Root’s only acknowledgment. Shaw knows Root’s survived much worse than mobsters, but a bullet is a bullet regardless of who fires it.

 

Shaw’s concentration is snapped an hour later as Bear starts whining loudly. She shushes him as she tries to re-read the files in front of her, but he trots over to where she’s sitting, nuzzling at her thigh. When she still doesn’t respond, he nips at the skin of her calf through her pants. 

 

“What the hell?” Shaw hisses. As she’s about to admonish him, he runs and sits next to Avery. He barks his detection bark, and she pushes away from the kitchen table. Avery is on his back, but his eyes are glossed over, unlike the focused stare on the colorful pieces arching over the playmat that he had before. Within seconds, his limbs start to jerk. She recognizes the seizure immediately.

 

His fever isn’t high enough to be the cause, and she watches helplessly as the seizure continues.  She taps the comms and waits until the line opens, her ears instantly assaulted with the sound of gunfire. “Kinda busy here, Sameen. What’s going on?” 

 

Shaw pauses, she doesn’t need Root to be distracted with panic. “I, uh, was just wondering about your status. Call me back when you’re done.” She taps her ear again.

 

She digs through the items in the cabinet where she found the playmat, holding her breath until she finds what she’s looking for. The straps on the baby carrier are slightly confusing, but she fiddles with it until it stays securely against her torso. When Avery’s body goes limp, she picks him up carefully and sets him in the carrier. He looks dazed and exhausted, and puts his head against her chest. She runs out the door, with Bear following at her heels.

  
  


*

  
  


“We need you to fill these forms out, ma’am,” the nurse repeats, reaching for Shaw’s arm as she’s striding down the hospital hallway as quickly as she can. “And your dog can’t come in.”

 

It takes all of Shaw’s restraint to extricate her arm from the nurse’s grasp without breaking any part of the woman’s body. “Not.  _ Now _ . And he is a service dog. He’s not going anywhere.” It’s a lie, but only kinda. After all, if Bear hadn’t noticed the beginning of the seizure, she probably would’ve missed it too.

 

Avery is being wheeled on a stretcher and Shaw follows him, daring anyone else to try to keep her away; the incident with the nurse appears to have made everyone else hesitant. 

 

Good. 

 

She watches as he’s led towards one of the ER bay area beds, the curtain closing around them. “When did it start?” The doctor asks.

 

“This is… this is the third one. The first one was fifty-five minutes ago,” Shaw offers. Her mind is hazy in a way she’s never experienced before, bile building up in the back of her throat.

 

The doctor nods at Bear. “How often does he have them?”

 

Shaw goes still as she doesn’t have an answer ready for him. She settles for: “He doesn’t. I mean, I don’t know.” She doesn’t want to fuck up the kid’s medical history - at least no more than she already has. “I have temporary custody; I just know he had kidney surgery, one to two months ago.”

 

For one second, it looks like he’ll ask her or Bear to be removed, but then he softens. “He seems to be stable now. You can have a seat while I order some tests.”

 

Avery’s eyes finally seem to focus again, and sobs start to rack through his body. She moves over the railing and splays her hand over his chest; she knows they’ll soon hook him up to all of the monitors, and she hates everything about this.

 

“Hi there,” she whispers, watching as he calms down, and his eyes turn towards her. “That sucked, didn’t it?”

 

He gasps a couple of times before blinking at her, his hands coming to wrap around her fingers, trying to pull her index finger into his mouth. 

 

She laughs, ignoring the tightness in her ribs. “I’m gonna break you out of here as soon as I can, okay? I promise.”

 

He coos at her, ending it with a long string of gibberish, and it’s like he’s back to his normal self - or at least what Shaw believes to be his normal self. She has no idea what his normal  _ is _ . Almost on cue, an admission nurse walks in, wheeling a computer behind her. 

 

“I’m sorry, I know how hard this is, but I need to ask a few questions. Are you the mother?”

 

“Yes,” Shaw lies on instinct.  “I mean. Sorta. It’s an emergency foster case. He’s been in my care for 48 hours now.” 

 

“Oh, alright. We’ll need the information on your social worker so we can reach out to ACS.”

 

“Right,” Shaw curses Root again, hoping the Machine will break the news about the hospital as soon as Root’s out of danger. “My, uh-- sorry, this has been really stressful. My, uh, wife...” The word tastes weird on Shaw’s tongue, but a legally recognized (fake) marriage means less likelihood of being tossed out. “She has all the info. She’s the  _ de facto _ foster parent.”

 

“We’ll need her info then,” the woman says. “Let’s get started on basic stuff first.”

  
  


*

  
  


“Mrs. Simpson?” 

 

Shaw takes another drink of the horrible coffee - before she remembers  _ she _ ’s Mrs. Simpson. 

 

The man enters the room Avery was moved to. “Um, yeah, hi,” she offers, standing up to greet him.

 

He stares at her face with just enough suspicion to make her feel uneasy. “I’m Mr. Robles with ACS.”

 

“My wife is on her way,” she lies. Root is still incommunicado, and the signal in the hospital is absolutely abysmal.

 

“Are you aware that your wife did not notify ACS of the change in her marital status? There was no background check performed for you. This is grounds for removal.”

 

_ Over my dead body _ , Shaw thinks. “It was so sudden,” she mutters in an attempt to be civil, to hide the anger she is feeling. “We filled out the notification, maybe it got lost in the mail?”

 

“I can file for an emergency injunction,” he replies. “But your wife will need to be present.”

 

The comms line clicks as the nurse re-enters the room. “Speak of the devil,” Shaw fakes a laugh, pulling out her phone to simulate a call. “Excuse me.”

 

“Sh--w, th--y k---.” Root’s voice crackles in her ear.

 

“Root, you’re breaking up.” Shaw moves further into the hallway, hoping to improve the connection.

 

The crackling intensifies, but Shaw can make out a few words. “They --- Avery ---  _ hospital _ .”

 

“Fuck,” Shaw curses as she runs back to the hospital room, finding the nurse unconscious and the bed empty.

  
  


*

  
  


Fusco rides with the lights and sirens on across state lines, jurisdiction be damned. 

 

“That’s what having a kid feels like,” Fusco offers, as if they weren’t doing 90mph on a rural road. “People whine about the diapers, the sleep deprivation and school plays, but really, it’s the worrying that’s the hardest part.”

 

Shaw remains silent, chewing on her lip and chiding herself. 

 

“Shit happens,” Fusco tries again.

 

“It’s not my kid,” she mutters under her breath.

 

“I know, I’m just saying…”

 

She turns to glare at him. “ _ Don’t _ say it.”

 

They meet with Root at the shipyard.

 

“Shaw,” Root’s voice is soft.

 

“I’m fine,” Shaw replies curtly. “Don’t worry about me, worry about the kid.” She grabs the baby carrier from the backseat. As she zips her hoodie closed over it, she turns to the other two. “Are we sure he’s here?”

 

“Him and the mother, yes. As of thirty minutes ago,” Root says, looking pointedly at Shaw as if to say  _ according to Her _ .

 

Shaw doesn’t say anything, just grabs the submachine gun from Root’s hand and charges in, not checking to see if the other two are following.

  
  


*

  
  


Andie, aka Sandra, is battered, bruised and bloody, to the point Lionel has to hold her up with one hand, as they try to exit the building the way they came.

 

Avery looks unharmed in the carrier, clinging to Shaw’s torso, and she can only hope the hoodie zipped over him is dampening the sound of gunfire. Root positions herself partially in front of her, shooting both semi automatics at the sources of the opposing gunfire. Normally Shaw would have pushed her away, but this time she is grateful for the added protection, knowing the Machine is guiding Root and them to safety.

 

Shaw shoots the SOFIC blindly, the gun positioned in the gap between Root’s waist and Root’s elbow. It recoils repeatedly against Root’s hip, but she doesn’t even flinch, even though Shaw knows the area will have plenty of bruises when the dust settles.

 

Bodies litter the ground, some groaning in pain as they clutch their knees, others not moving at all. Fuck being a scalpel at this point, Shaw figured. She knows even Finch wouldn’t be demanding any mercy in this case.

  
  


*

  
  


“Avery has TSC,” Root explains as she passes a mug to Shaw. The coffee is bitter and hot enough to burn, but Shaw drinks it anyway. It’s the instant coffee kind because Finch refuses to acknowledge that coffeemakers do exist. “The father had it, too.”

 

Sandra/Andie is on the hospital bed of the main safe house, her left arm in a cast and Avery sleeping against her chest. Shaw stitched up a few lacerations, but Shaw expects the woman to be recovered enough to be moved within a couple of days. Root brought the essentials from the ice cube safe house until then.

 

“Tuberous sclerosis?” She asks. It fits with the kidney surgery and the seizures. “That’s why she dipped into the money,” she concludes. Uncle Sam might’ve set Andie Motta up with an identity and the relative security of Witsec, but there’s no way it would’ve picked up the tab for the surgery or post-op treatment. “It has a good prognosis. Most people live normal lives with it.” 

 

Root nods. 

 

Shaw sips more of the horrible coffee. “And the money?” 

 

Root smiles. “Let’s just say Avery will have a very generous college fund. Moved it to a swiss account, along with every penny of the funds in the Piccio family accounts.”

 

“Mobsters should know better than to piss off their money man,” Shaw smirks. “Or woman.” The Piccios definitely won’t be needing any of that money in prison. “And the ACS guy who took him, Robles?”

 

Root shakes her head. “PI that the Piccios hired to track Avery down. He knew about the TSC from the neighbors, probably found out he was admitted through an informant, or even ACS. And She will be texting Fusco with his location next time he is in the city.”

 

“Hmm.” Shaw sighs. “And if that doesn’t happen, I guess we can pay him a visit in Jersey, help him pick out some crutches.”

 

The grin on Root’s face grows as she nods. “You wanna get out of here?” Root asks, leaning until her head is almost touching Shaw’s shoulder. It’s not a flirtatious proposition-- well, it is, because it’s Root, but it’s one part flirtation and three parts concern.

 

Shaw considers it, glances at where Bear is sleeping on one of the beds Finch always keeps at the safe house for him. Her eyes can’t help but wander to where Avery sleeps with his mother. “Nah, I think I’m gonna stick around,” she decides. “She’s not gonna be able to do much for a couple of days.”

 

“Okay, I’ll fix up the bedroom.” She doesn’t miss the chance to press her lips to Shaw’s bare shoulder, as she moves in the direction of the safe house master bedroom. 

 

Shaw wants to stop her, to say she’ll take the couch or that Root inferred Shaw’s decision incorrectly, but the truth is that she is tired and still more than a little pissed at herself. She’ll never talk shit about how easy or boring parenting is, because that was awful. So, yeah, she could use the distraction and the back up. 

 

(Also the company, but Shaw won’t admit that, at least not yet. She has a feeling that Root is gonna do the disappearing act again soon anyways.)

 

“You know, you’re still wearing that thing,” Root teases when she’s halfway to the bedroom.

 

Shaw glances down to see the stupid baby carrier against her front, looking saggy and pathetic without the kid in it. Not that it didn’t look stupid  _ with _ the kid, but ugh. She takes a deep breath as she tries to untangle herself from the item. Root’s gonna be doing the first shift for middle of the night cries, just because of that smirk on her face.

 

And next time they have a number under the age of eighteen, Shaw’s gonna leave it to Finch and Reese to handle on their own. She and Root could definitely enjoy a vacation. Separately. (Or not.)

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank for reading!!!


End file.
